Now like a sheaf of golden arrows fall
The last rays of the Indian Summer sun;
And hark along the hollow hills they run,
Invisible messengers, the battle-call
Of coming storms, in pipings faint and small
They bring:--the pageant of the year is done.




RESIGNATION.


If Thou who seest this heart of mine
To earthly idols prone,
Should'st all those clinging cords untwine,
And take again Thy own,--
Help me to lay my hands in thine,
And say Thy will be done!

But Oh, when Thou dost claim the gift
Which Thou did'st only lend,
And leav'st my life of love bereft,
And lonely to the end,--
Oh Saviour! be Thyself but left,
My best beloved Friend!

And still the chastening hand I bless,
Which doth my steps uphold
Along earth's thorny wilderness,